


All Part of It, All Trapped By It

by Findecutie



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Nargothrond
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-27
Updated: 2016-10-27
Packaged: 2018-08-27 06:56:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8391658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Findecutie/pseuds/Findecutie
Summary: After Beren meets with Finrod to call in his debt and request aid in recovering a Silmaril, Finrod goes to find his cousins. He meets with Celegorm and Curufin thinking about oaths, love, family, and the ways in which they have all, as he warned Beren, become ensnared.(aka an attempt to make canon hurt slightly less without actually changing canon)





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MayGlenn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MayGlenn/gifts).



> The title comes from the V for Vendetta quote "And I realised we're all part of it, and all trapped by it."
> 
> I'm intensely interested in Finwë's family and in the power of Oaths, Dooms, and Curses in Tolkien's works. This story operates under the belief that they can have agency in the text, acting upon characters and actively influencing people and events. In the end this only adds to the tragedy of the Noldor and, especially, the House of Finwë.

“Oh, honestly brother, what did you expect?” There was laugher, followed by the soft thud of a punch, followed by more laughter. Finrod shook his head with a small smile as his cousins came into view.  

“Ingoldo! Ingoldo tell this idiot--" Another punch landed on Celegorm.

“Watch who you call idiot, brother dearest!”

“You should be more careful when speaking to your elders.”

“Pah. You’re barely a decade my elder and in terms of maturity you never passed five hundred,” Curufin finished quickly. Celegorm cuffed the back of his head, and at Curufin’s outraged look followed that by ruffling his brother’s locks good naturedly.

“What brings you this way, Ingoldo? Not that your company isn’t always welcome.” Finrod sighed. “Finderáto, are you well?” The worst part was how genuinely worried Celegorm was at the moment.

“I am feeling nostalgic, I suppose, cousin.”

“Of the siege, or family, or,” Celegorm hesitated slightly, “Aman?” Finrod shrugged and raised his hands, palms open and spread.

“All of it?” He tried on a smile. “Or pick something. Even Thingol has managed to enmesh himself in the Eldalië’s Doom, and I fear that once again events are about to pick up speed. We barrel headlong towards dooms on account of fools who ignore what foresight or wisdom would make clear.” Curufin eyed his cousin with sudden interest.

“That was oddly specific Ingoldo. I presume you have no wish to give clarity to that statement at present?” Finrod shook his head, choosing discretion as the better part of valor for the moment. “Well then,” Curufin smiled. “The far Western shore is out of reach at the moment, and I cannot reverse time, but if you wish for some princely touch of home, I happen to be looking for a new project and bored out of my skull-- thus my spending time with this lug.” Finrod laughed as Celegorm kicked his brother's shin. Hard.

“I’m sorry you’re so bored, Curvo.”

“I’m sorry father felt the need to continue procreating to the point where all the good parts of father and mother had been passed on, leaving them to breed only idiots.”

“Don’t talk about Ambarussa that way!”

“Well, they’re twins, I suppose they still received something special. They weren’t who I was referring to.” For a moment, Finrod thought Curufin would actually stick out his tongue.

“ _Anyway_.” Curufin managed to sound both impossibly young and unbelievably put upon. “If you’d like I can craft something for you for my next project. What would you like 'Goldo-- a new sword, a lantern, a saddle? Something with a touch of home and the jewels and patterns of the House of Finwë, as we used as children,” he added thoughtfully. 

Finrod was torn. He was bound by his oath and, for perhaps the first time, thought he might understand how his cousins felt, bound by their terrible oath, though his had been given in gratitude and theirs in anger and loss, his by his own words and theirs crafted by the words of a fell Fëanáro. He realized he was hesitating too long.

“Whatever strikes your fancy, Curvo, I’m sure it will be most impressive.” He hesitated again, then continued, “But there is to be an open counsel meeting tomorrow. Perhaps you might wait to start it until afterwards?” I’m sorry. This wasn’t meant to happen.

“As you wish, Ingoldo.” Celegorm gave him a long look, then carefully focused his attention on something else. Curufin and Finrod did the same, silently agreeing to avoid whatever Finrod expected would tear them asunder. Curufin stepped forward and embraced his older cousin, and for a moment Finrod held him close.

“Curvo,” he breathed into his hair, before Celegorm took his younger brother’s place.

“Whatever is happening, Ingoldo, do be careful.” Finrod leaned against Celegorm for a moment, letting someone else bear his weight. His cousin. His _family_.

“I can see my death ahead of me already,” he murmured. “And part of me dreads it, though I know well that we are bound to the circles of this world.” Celegorm pressed a large hand against his back and leaned forward, wild curls blocking out the world for half a minute as he pressed his forehead to his cousin’s.

“Nevertheless, take care of yourself.” And he stepped back, turning to Curufin who was already in step with him and turning to mirror his brother. “Shall we ride, today?”

“That is what I was trying to suggest before.”

“No need to be testy, brother dearest.” There was the sound of another muffled hit as they moved off, laughing.

Finrod leaned against the cool stone wall of the hallway, shoulders slumping. He would do what he must tomorrow, they all would. And the world would keep turning despite them all.

 

 

The next day as Finrod reminded his people of the bravery and loyalty of Barahir and the oath he was bound to, he carefully watched the crowd of his people, who nodded in agreement and appreciation. Despite their apprehension as he revealed his task, they seemed to him both supportive and hopeful. Then his eyes fell, and caught, on Celegorm and Curufin, who watched him with blank faces, hands close to their blades. Curufin’s eyes looked almost betrayed, while Celegorm’s looked only weary. And when Finrod stopped and sat, Celegorm stood.

Celegorm drew his sword-- a sword built by Feanor in Formenos, which gleamed with an inner fire, and held it aloft. He stepped forward, and looked out at the crowd, and his voice was like to that of his father as he spoke with words and tone to move the hardest of hearts. “Be he friend or foe, whether demon of Morgoth, or Elf, or child of Men, or any other living thing in Arda, neither law, nor love, nor league of hell, nor might of the Valar, nor any power of wizardry, shall defend him from the pursuing hate of Feanor’s sons, if he take or find a Silmaril and keep it.” He caught Finrod’s eye as he finished this paraphrase of the Oath. “For the Silmarils we alone claim, until the world ends.” Celegorm continued to speak, and his words were like liquid fire that ensnared the spirits of all who listened.

People were already moving, their thoughts turning to align with his as he spoke of the stolen heirlooms of his family, and Finrod thought again of the ‘great power’ he had warned Beren of. For while he was a firstborn son, he was firstborn of the third line of the House of Finwë, and one prone to visions and imaginings. He stood here, though crowned king by Maedhros’ abstention, against sons of the Spirit of Fire grown great once more within Nargothrond’s walls. 

Celegorm stepped to the side, and Curufin took his place. He spoke softer, the crafty younger brother of Celegorm the outgoing hunter. And in sweet words, light as the air or the faintest breeze, he conjured a vision of war and of the ruin of Nargothrond, and his words altogether held a power no less than those of his brother. 

Finrod watched as fear took his people and settled somewhere deep within them where it would not be found or removed with speed. And part of him wished to curse the oath that drove his cousins, yet he recognized that through manipulation and fear they had likely preserved Nargothrond for a while longer, ensuring the extreme caution that could let his city continue to flourish when he was gone. Perhaps this would be the last gift he would receive from Curufin, not jewelry or weapons or adornment but an invisible cage set about Nargothrond that would increase the vigilance of its people, those who would not risk this quest with him, and both isolate Nargothrond and preserve the Elves who dwelt there, if only for a time. 

When he caught his cousins’ gazes, Finrod tilted his head slightly in recognition, acceptance, and perhaps even gratitude. Even as their faces darkened and the Oath and the Doom alike drove their course, Finrod did not forget and, at least in the depths of his heart, he thought instead of riding with the other grandchildren of Finwë in the uncharted regions of Aman, of swimming under starlight and dancing with his family under the light of the two trees and the silver-gold glow of the Silmarillë. And as he thought, he was able to accept and to forgive and to love.


End file.
